Good Impressions

Steve Jobson

The year is 1912. In Europe, tensions are rising between nations. In Africa, Europe is running rampant and relentlessly. Morocco, colonized by Spain and having relatively recently regained its independence from that nation, has a new problem: France.

Hassan

Hassan Maroun was having a very good day. He listened as the muezzins call echoed through the city. He had bought some fruit from the marketplace, and was now relaxing by his house, in one of the dark alleyways. It was nice and quiet, almost festive, despite being a normal day. He handed the rest of the fruit to his mother, who put it on a cutting-board for some delicious project, and then Hassan ran off in search of something fun to do. He heard the voices of is friends in the street. He grinned, and got ready for a full game of tag.

Abel

Abel Rousseau was having a very good day. Nothing unusual or untoward had happened, and he had some time to write in his journal about the days events. Dense, dark alleyways close in around me as I leave the main marketplace. I see women and children, looking at me as though I am a peril to them. I feel no particular fear. This town has been secured, and the front is a good ways away. Perhaps I will stop back into the marketplace later in search of food. The cuisine here fascinates me. Heavily spiced. Nothing like what my mother used to make me. The heat is not so great here, as the narrowness of the road and height of the buildings prevents light from filtering in properly. In some spots, the sun strikes my face, but not often. I keep walking, the scents of the marketplace giving way to the more pungent urgency of one of the tanneries. Theyve been doing things pretty much the same way for a very long time, or so the officers say in their discussions. It lends the place a sort of austerity that almost causes me guilt. The distant thunder of artillery brings me back to my place.

Hed always been a prolific writer, although it wasnt his dream in life. What he wanted was an opportunity to be one of those heroic knights that he imagined officers to be. That was why hed joined. Not because he wanted to serve his country, or to impress women, but to be an officer. He figured the service and impressed women would come with being an officer. That was why he was out here, leading a group of uninspired ingrates. The normal neerdowells he nudged along these dusty roads would never see the glory that he saw, that he strived for. He didnt worry about it. He didnt need the competition. It took a special kind of individual to seek power in that sort of a way, even more so given how often Abel had seen it abused. Petty tyrants at every corner, and yet Abel still maintained his idealism.

Hassan

Hassan ran rapidly. They wouldnt tag him this time. He swerved around a corner, and ran directly into a big man with a huge knife. The man and what seemed to be the mans friends seemed to be in the middle of a very important conversation, as they all turned to him, and looked directly at him with level, sober gazes. Let him be, Munahid. The voice of one of the mans comrades seemed to snap Hassan back into place. The man, Munahid, let out a jolly laugh. Of course, Haydar. Who do you think I am, one of the French? Youth is no crime. To them, everything we do is a crime. Hassan, sensing that they had forgotten about him just as quickly as they had noticed him, checked over his shoulder, and congratulated himself on outrunning the other boys. He grinned, and walked back the way he came.

Abel

The war had been fierce here, especially at first. The heat was immense, soul-crushing. It was hard enough to fight out here himself. Making his men do it went against every preconception he had of gentlemanly conduct. But the officers seemed capable of doing so. He thusly did the same. For Abel, it was just another facet of his idealistic worship of the officers. If they can do it, so must he, in order to become one of them. Just another step in Abels war.

Hassan

Hassan was not surprised by his encounter with the men. The city was the sort of place where he always felt safe, like a city of extended family members. His mother, Nailah, and his father, Sakhr, were just a small part of an extended world for him. He took the sense of community in stride. It wasnt for granted, as he greatly and genuinely appreciated the feeling it gave him. He pitied anyone who couldnt feel the same, although for him that was merely an abstract, and he never put much time into it.

Abel

The war this far into the desert hadnt been too hard. Simple pushes, kill anyone who fought back, or capture them if you didnt kill them. It was a good system, and his squad hadnt lost anyone. He didnt know that anyone else had had any issues, but his war had been rather personal, focused more on taking what you were told to, and being too busy working to be an officer to listen to rumors and hearsay. As he pondered this, a cry rang out. LISTEN UP! OUR NEXT STOP IS RABAT! YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO, AND HOW TO DO IT! MOVE OUT! He grinned. Maybe this time hed get spotted doing something officer-like. He sure hoped so.

Hassan

There was an air of tension palpable in the city. The French were coming. Everyone was packing up, not sure whether to leave, or stay and stand their ground. Rabat had fallen, as had many other cities. Refugees came streaming in, telling tales of misery, woe, and defeat. Hassan listened as his father discussed what to do about this with his friends. Perhaps we should flee to the countryside. Green valleys, open desert. We would be safe there. We should stay and fight. If one part falls, all of us should fall, but at least we can say we fought for our futures. Is that what should be done by God? Would God have us turn away and leave exposed our fellows? ENOUGH! Now is not the time for abstracts. We need absolutes. We need a plan.

Abel

Abel was having another very good day. The siege of Rabat had been a quick, and a relatively efficient thing. The big guns did their job, and he did his. He could still see down the sights of his Lebel, working the bolt as the next figure rushed towards him. That figure dropped, and he kept firing. Back, forward, pull trigger, repeat. Back, forward, pull trigger, repeat. He stopped only when there was nothing moving. He lowered the rifle, and walked forward with his squad. Another town captured, another victory, another chance for promotion. Hed heard a rumor that they were thinking about commending him on merit, and merit alone, for an officership. Next stop: Fez. He figured hed make a good impression.

Hassan

Theyd stayed. He didnt quite know why, but they remained behind. Hed seen many of the others taking up arms to defend Fez. He decided hed join them. He ran to get a knife from his father, who stopped him. Hassan, you are too young. I need you to stay here, and watch after your family. Yes, Sakhr. Good lad. Ill be right back. Hassan smiled and waved, certain that they both would be able to protect their family until it was over.

Abel

This was it. They marched into the city, overrunning the first few defenders easily. Back, forth, pop. Nothing he hadnt done a hundred times before. It was all going so well. They secured the marketplace, and began to filter into the alleyways. An officer was standing behind Abel. He could practically taste his promotion. Had the officer seen how well hed done?

Hassan

He was lost. The gunfire was mostly over now. Where was Sakhr? Shouldnt he be on his way back by now? He ran to the kitchen, and grabbed a knife off the cutting board. He stood in the shadow of the doorway, holding it tightly. He saw two French, or as he saw them, enemies, walking towards him. He knew that he must protect his family. He counted down from ten. When he reached zero, he would run out there, and defend his family. He would be a good son.

Abel

The officer had chosen to follow him! How much better could things get? The officer walked ahead of him, saying something about wanting to inspect the architecture and way of life here, so he could put it in his report. Abel nodded, and kept a wary eye out for anything that could jeopardize this opportunity of his. As the officer stepped down the alleyway, a glint caught Abels eye. A knife, flashing. In one smooth motion, Abel managed to bring his rifle to his shoulder, and fire a single, deadly accurate shot. The knife fell to the ground, and the officer stood there, pistol finally coming all the way up, and then dropping again as he surveyed the scene. Abel, was it? You may have just saved me there, boy. Yes, sir. I may have to put you in for a commission. Youve shown initiative and heroism in the line of fire, and that is always welcome in this army. Thank you, sir. Lets keep moving, shall we? Yes, sir. Abel couldnt help but grin as he kept walking. Hed done it. Hed created a window for himself. Already, he could see himself a dashing officer, calmly smoking a pipe in his mansions garden back in France. This day could not get any better.

Hassan

One of the soldiers said something meaningless, then started walking towards Hassans house. Hassan saw his chance. He took it. And, as he saw the second man raise his gun, he realized three things. One, that he had done his best to protect his family, and he hoped it would be enough. Secondly, that the French had taken Fez. Thirdly, that the pain was incredible. Then he saw blackness and nothing more.

Photos: Anthony Vail Sloan, Morocco, 2006